


Not Interested

by Viridis



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Bigotry & Prejudice, Denial, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, Grinding, Humor, M/M, Matchmaking, Outdoor Sex, POV Multiple, Pining, Scent Kink, Sex, Size Kink, Tent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-09-21 19:10:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9562604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viridis/pseuds/Viridis
Summary: What if… Bull really disliked Dorian?What if… Dorian really disliked Bull?What if… Trevelyan turned out to be one hell of a matchmaker?





	1. Day One, Skyhold

**Author's Note:**

> I had so much fun writing this... hopefully you will enjoy reading it! :)
> 
> Warnings for steamy sex (in later chapters) and some offensive language (swearing, name-calling).  
> Will update soon, as the story is fully written.
> 
> Thank You goes to my astonishingly adorable beta [Fen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan)! <3

The Iron Bull shakes his head.

”Nnnnno.”

Trevelyan blinks, genuinely perplexed. She glances from Bull back to Dorian, who is sitting on the other side of the crowded tavern, wrapping some mesmerized noble around his elegant finger. The mage looks absolutely dashing tonight: he is a vision in pearl grey silk and blue velvet - gorgeous, detached, polished to perfection.

”Really?” The Inquisitor sounds incredulous. ”I must admit I am surprised.”

The Qunari takes a long swig from his bottle; his lone eye narrows.

”Why? Because he is _pretty?_ ”

”Well – yes, that. And he is quite charming. Intelligent. Funny.”

”Funny? I suppose. The same way getting an arrow in your ass is funny.”

Trevelyan frowns. They've played multiple rounds of Would You Hit That, and so far the only ones Bull has absolutely refused are the members of the Chargers - the reason being “it would get messy”. So to refuse _Dorian_ , and especially to refuse Dorian now, after Trevelyan has decided that _the two idiots would make a perfect match_ …

Well. This just won't do.

The idea came to her a couple of days ago, when she noticed that Dorian was kind of ogling Bull's biceps and Bull was kind of ogling Dorian's ass during their usual verbal jousting. She listened to them, and watched them, and the longer she did, the more convinced she became that there was _something_ there. A spark ready to emerge. A chance of attraction. A ghost of fondness.

She is... kind of almost sure of it.

And she is going to make it happen.

”So perhaps he has the tendency to be a bit sarcastic,” Trevelyan says dismissively. ”But he has other, truly wonderful qualities.” 

Bull scoffs. 

”Yeah, I am going to quote Josie here: _The man could cause a scene standing quietly in the center of an empty room_.”

”He is _entertaining_ ,” the Inquisitor smiles slyly and tilts her head. ”And I happen to know he likes big men.”

Bull raises an accusing finger. It is a very big finger.

”You really think I'd fuck just about anyone. That's hurtful, boss.” They stare at each other for a moment. Then a wide, impish grin spreads on the Qunari’s scarred face. “Fine, yes: I would.” Trevelyan spreads her arms, in desperation.

”So why not Dorian?”

”Because Qunari and Tevinter don't mix. Just the way it is.”

”And Krem?”

”Krem is an exception. Plus we don't do the sex thing.”

”I am not buying this, Bull,” Trevelyan says firmly, empties her tankard, and slams it on the table. The Qunari sighs.

”Boss, look. I don't like the guy. Okay? I don't have to like everyone. And even if I did, the fancy pants is a mage, won't touch those.”

”Why, that's awfully prejudiced!”

”That's awfully _smart_.”

Trevelyan clears her throat. 

“Well - be that as it may, and romantics aside, I still think the two of you should try and get along better.” She makes an attempt to sound light-hearted. “Wouldn’t be that hard, you have so much in common and -”

The mercenary bursts out laughing; a loud, booming, contagious thing, that causes an eruption of spontaneous cheers in the nearby tables.

”So much in common?!” Bull wipes his tearing eye. ”Koslun's balls!”

Trevelyan refuses to become demoralized.

”You are both with the Inquisition. You are both from the North - far away from home. You both enjoy warm climate, spicy food, and insolent flirting. You have a fondness for tavern life and carnal pleasures. You are both great fighters, dreadfully smart, and much, much kinder than you seem.”

”Boss, if you think geography, booze, and promiscuous behavior are the makings of a great friendship...” Bull shakes his horned head, then lowers it, and looks her straight in the eye. “Here’s how it is: I work for you, I will play nice with your people. I am teammates with the Vint: _I get it_. I will cover his fancy ass in the field, I will pick him up if he falls - heck, I will even engage in banter every now and then, just to push his buttons. But that is as far as it goes.”

Trevelyan tries to hide her dissatisfaction; she is pretty sure Bull notices anyhow. 

”Fine - fine, have it your way then.” She sighs airily. ”Your loss.”

”A loss of a snotty, whiny, headache-causing Vint, I'm sure, does not qualify as loss.”

”Hey!” The Inquisitor makes a stern face. ”I love that snotty Vint.”

Bull mutters something in Qunlat and concentrates on his ale. Trevelyan worries her lower lip and looks thoughtful.

In all honesty, this is none of her business.

_So_ none of her business.

Keep your nose out of other people's relationships, that's what Grandma used to say, and she was right, no doubt about it.

On the other hand, Grandma also said that elves are inferior beings, moonlight turns one's hair grey, and mixing a drop of mercury with your wine is good for you.

”See you,” she says and gets up. Bull nods, but his attention is already elsewhere; he is signaling Krem to come over and bring a bottle with him. Trevelyan walks across the room and stops by Dorian's table.

”A word. Please.”

The mage smiles. He has such a charming smile; it lights up his handsome face and turns his silver eyes into sparkling crescents – whether it's genuine or not, is anyone's guess.

”Certainly, my dear.” Dorian gives an apologetic look to the flustered Orlesian sitting opposite him. ”Perhaps we can continue this later? In... your quarters, perchance?”

The man - a pretty comte with delicate hands and amber eyes - nods, and the blush on his cheeks deepens. He gets up, gives the Inquisitor a courteous bow and leaves. Trevelyan takes his place.

”So,” says Dorian and leans back in his chair. ”What can I do for you? Is this about that Venatori cell? The upcoming field mission? My immaculate hair?”

”No, nothing like that.” Trevelyan lowers her voice. ”I was just wondering... how are things with you? Do you feel like you are fitting in better? Are people behaving themselves?”

Dorian tilts his head.

”I appreciate your concern, Inquisitor, but I can take care of myself. However, since you asked, I am pleased to inform you that all the vendors are accepting my coin now, and it's been over two weeks since anyone spat on me.”

Trevelyan struggles to to keep her anger down.

”I see. And our companions?”

The mage sighs.

”Oh, you know… Sera seems oddly fond of me, and by now I am pretty sure it is not about some prank. The Seeker, on the other hand, is still suspicious.” Dorian fondles his glass absentmindedly. ”That lummox Blackwall _must_ have a secret crush on my persona, the way he keeps picking on me. And our apostate hobo considers his type of magic superior and treats me accordingly – but since I do the same, that is perfectly fine.”

”Vivienne? Cole? Varric?”

”Madame de Fer and myself share some common interests, so I am sure our verbal needling will be turning into cold, yet not totally uncaring companionship soon enough. Cole and I are... friendly, I suppose. As strange as he is, he is very sweet. Varric? I quite like Varric. Is there someone who doesn't? If so, I have not met them.”

Trevelyan nods, pleased, and pauses for a moment, before continuing: ”And... the Iron Bull?”

The mage makes a long-suffering sound.

”The dumb ox.”

”Oh, but he is far from dumb, Dorian.”

”Right, he used to be a spy, a dreaded Ben-Hassrath!” Dorian raises his hands in clear refusal. ”No, I don't see us becoming friends.”

Trevelyan hums.

”That is still such a big deal?”

”My dear: I don't have much interest befriending someone whose people - be they his ex-people, even - try and murder my countrymen.”

”...I doubt Bull wants to murder you.”

The look Dorian gives her is almost ruthful.

”I do not share your optimism, Inquisitor. One can never trust his kind, and you will do well to remember that.”

”Generally speaking true, but you've got to admit he isn’t your typical Qunari.”

”Then allow me to tell you what he is: a man of _appalling_ table manners, too loud of a voice, and incomprehensible fashion sense. Is it too much to ask him to burn those pants and learn how to wear a shirt?”

”Apparently requesting him to wear a shirt is an insult to his rich Qunari heritage.” Trevelyan smirks. ”Just as well, I for one quite enjoy the view.”

”Truly?” Dorian stares at her. ”Fair enough, I suppose... he has a pretty well-formed musculature.”

Trevelyan lowers her voice even more.

”I also hear he is quite apt in the bedroom.”

” _Please!_ ” Dorian brings his hands on his ears. ”I am sick of hearing the stories about his conquests.”

”I wonder... have you ever been tempted? You know, _ride the bull_ , as they say.”

Dorian chokes.

”Maker's mercy!” He shakes his head, aghast. ”For a curious and slightly suicidal kitchen maid the Qunari savage might be fine to have a quick tumble with; for a nobleman, such as myself, not so much.”

”Oh, I don't know. I believe numerous Orlesian courtiers might disagree with you there.”

The mage groans. The inquisitor leans closer.

”I really think you should get to know him better. You might be surprised.”

Dorian lays his fine, long fingers on Trevelyan's wrist, and smiles gently.

”Nnnnno.”

The Inquisitor falls silent. She contemplates.

Stubborn, clueless asses they may be, but she is convinced there's potential here: in her mind Dorian and Bull would make a great couple. Surely. Someone should just make them realize the fact… and as the cynical pragmatist in her loses to the idealistic romantic, she makes a decision.

She is going to make this happen. Of course she will have to be careful and cunning about it: Bull used to be a Ben-Hassrath operator, and Dorian is as sharp as he is suspicious… but she can do this.

She knows she can do this.


	2. Day Two, Skyhold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank You [Fen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan) for being the most wonderful beta, once again! <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it begins...

Dorian stares at Bull with a blank face.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says.

The Qunari is leaning against the bookshelf, his massive, vitaar-covered arms crossed, and his wide horns protruding forward. He looks almost as irritated as Dorian feels. 

”Boss says you need some boxes moved into your room. I am good at moving boxes.”

Dorian shifts in his chair, uncomfortable. When he happened to mention (in passing, quite innocently) to the good Inquisitor last night that he is in the process of moving some books into his quarters, he didn’t really expect a hand - at least not a hand of this magnitude.

”Well!” Dorian's voice is strained. ”This is rather… unexpected, but I suppose I could find some use for your ridiculous muscles.” He points at three crates he has packed with thick tomes and yellowed parchments. “There. Kindly try not to drool on the manuscripts.”

Bull smiles, way too sweetly, and with way too many teeth.

”I’ll try. Will be hard though, you know how we Qunari are: nothing like drooling on manuscripts all day long, every chance we get.”

Dorian rolls his eyes, but before he can come up with anything clever to say, Bull piles up the crates and lifts them up effortlessly – it is ridiculous, almost _offensive_ , how strong he is.

”Let’s go. I have other things to do.”

“Ah, yes.” The mage, who is now pretending to arrange his latest research notes on the table, nods seriously. “It is almost noon, there must be a tankard calling your name. Or perhaps it is time to whack your poor lieutenant into oblivion in the practice ring?”

“I wish. I need to get my shit together and my things packed before we hit the Emerald Graves.”

Dorian looks up and frowns.

”I didn't know you were coming.”

”Neither did I before this morning.”

”Oh, joy.”

Bull takes a step forward.

”Pleasure is all mine, trust me. Now, could we get this done, please?”

”By all means.” Dorian gets up and looks at the Qunari thoughtfully. ”Actually, why don't you take the stairs first – wouldn't want your behemoth bulk or those crates landing on my head in case you take a tumble.”

The stairs are a tight fit. Bull can barely squeeze through with his horns and shoulders to begin with; now he has to turn almost sideways. He goes slow, and Dorian, who may or may not be staring at his shifting back muscles, follows patiently. Finally they make it down. Solas, who is working on one of his murals, gives them a curious look.

“What is this?” he asks. Dorian gives him a haughty smile.

“Emergency delivery.” He points at the crates. “That’s the delivery.” He points at Bull’s pants. “That is the emergency.”

“You,” Bull says, “are very, very close to ending up carrying these books all by yourself, little man.”

“Way to deal with constructive criticism, Bull.”

“That’s what you call it?”

Solas, looking less and less impressed with their bickering, turns away.

“Move along, please.”

“What?” Dorian gasps. “No chance for tea and crumpets?”

The elf doesn’t bother answering. He turns back to his work, dips his paintbrush in the light blue pot, and shuts them out.

Dorian takes the lead, as they enter the Great Hall. He glides across the floor with arrogant grace, his soft boots hissing against the stone, and suddenly there is a well-trained, radiant smile on his face. 

Bull follows and watches with amusement as the mage walks shamelessly straight through a pack of soldiers: he winks at a delicious-looking young man, who flushes immediately; then he steps aside to avoid a collision with an older nobleman, touches his arm ever-so-lightly, as if by accident, after which he makes an exquisite spin around, flashes a seductive smile at two giggling girls, and manages somehow to pay a short compliment to a passing scribe before leaving them all behind. It is a dance, and he knows the steps by heart.

”You're such a tease,” Bull grunts. Dorian tuts.

”I like to keep them wanting.” He gives Bull a side-glance. ”Unlike some.”

”Hey!”

”How do you do it, again? You go to someone and... what? Drool on them?” The mage shakes his head. ”I'll have you know there is more to the art of charming and seduction than leery comments and ramming someone against the wall. Some of us enjoy the more sophisticated approach. But to each their own, I suppose.”

”Nothing wrong with good ramming,” Bull mutters. Dorian waves his hand dismissively.

”You truly are a barbarian.”

”And you truly are a -”

”Don't drop those books.”

Dorian's room is small and absolutely stuffed. Bull stares at the decor in apparent awe: gleaming mirrors and dainty cosmetic jars; cushions, curtains and rugs in exotic colors; gloomy paintings, half-burnt candles, and accessories; books, books, books. Everything is lovely, albeit a bit worn-out and dusty, and very non-Fereldan.

”...where am I supposed to put these things exactly?”

Dorian steps forward. He moves a small rosewood chair aside and points at a spot by his narrow bed. Bull sets the tower of crates on the floor carefully.

”Excellent,” Dorian says.

”You're _welcome_ , Vint.”

”Ah. Quite.” Dorian performs a graceful bow. ”Thank you, The Iron Bull.”

Dorian turns his attention to his precious books and manuscripts. Bull shows no interest in leaving, but the mage decides to ignore him – that is until the big lout stops by the bookshelf and begins to laugh.

”Oooh, I see I hit the smut section!”

Dorian gives him an irritated look.

”I thought you were in a hurry.”

Apparently not: Bull leans in to take a closer look.

” _Swords and Shields_ , huh?”

”So what?”

Dorian doesn't feel too ashamed; everyone reads _Swords And Shields_ after all, and Varric is his friend, so he is supposed to be supportive, right? But then he remembers there is a certain book he brought with him from Tevinter Bull _must not see_ – yet the moment he spins around, ready to go and grab it, it is already too late.

” _Conquered By The Qunari?_ ” Bull gasps in mock horror. He picks the narrow, leatherbound (and notably worn-out) book from the shelf and opens it. ”And look, it is your personal copy!”

” _Venhedis_ , put it down!” Dorian swears, and tries to snap the book away from Bull. The Qunari simply lifts his arms, so that it can't be reached, and browses the pages.

”Why, Dorian, this is just filthy. Is this your idea of the sophisticated seduction you mentioned earlier? I am shocked!”

” _I said put it down!_ ”

”And there are _pictures!_ Oh, you Tevinters and your dirty little… wait, why is this part marked?” Dorian lets out a furious groan and kicks him in the shin; Bull doesn't even notice. ”Hang on now, this sounds interesting: _'Tragically, there was no one around to help young Lucius. The massive Arvaarad bent him brutally over the barrel: greedy, beastly hands fumbled on the laces of his breeches, and next thing he knew, they were yanked down, and a huge, hot_ -'”

Dorian hits Bull's elbow with a faint electric shock; the Qunari yelps and drops the book. Dorian picks it up and hides it behind his back.

” _Ouch_ ,” says Bull. He looks pretty freaked out and kind of impressed. ”Just when I was about to get to the good part.”

”Get out of my room,” Dorian commands. His silver eyes are blazing. Bull makes a face.

”But – what about young Lucius and the massive Arvaarad?”

”Bull, I swear to Maker, if you don't get out right now, I will set your ugly pants on fire!”

“You sure seem intrigued by my pants. Makes me wonder.”

Dorian raises his hand and another cluster of lavender sparks erupts from his fingertips. Bull backs off.

”Fine, fine. No need to get violent.” Bull walks to the door and steps out. Then he stops, though, and peeks in one more time. ”You know, I gotta admit this made me feel closer to you, Dorian. Warms my heart to know how you feel about my peop-”

_“Gooooo!”_

The Iron Bull laughs and leaves. Dorian collapses on the bed and covers his face.

He needs a drink – bad.


	3. Day Six, The Emerald Graves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some nudity in this chapter. ;)
> 
> Thank you everyone who's been reading & commenting! You guys are such a delight!  
> Furthermore, praised be [Fen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan) for being my beta! <3

Bull swears out loud.

”Well excuse _me_ ,” says Dorian and makes a disgusted face. ”I assure you this is not my idea.”

_”Boss!”_ Bull's crabby, thunderous voice makes Trevelyan jump on the other side of the camp. ”Why am I sharing the tent with the Vint?”

The Inquisitor tries to keep an unreadable expression on her face. She left most of her companions in the base camp with all the scouts, requisition officers and whatnot, and (after careful consideration) dragged Bull, Dorian and Cassandra with her through the lush forests. It has been a pleasant day, all in all, with just a couple of enemy encounters – until now, apparently.

She clears her throat.

”Because Cassandra refuses to share with either of you. And we don't have a third tent.”

”I've shared with Cassandra before,” Bull points out. The Inquisitor grins.

”Exactly. And she says she won't do it again.”

Bull pinches his mouth shut and a slightly sheepish expression spreads on his face.

”I could share with Cassandra,” Dorian says, hopefully. ”I am civilized, and much less inclined to steal her undergarments.”

Trevelyan shakes her head.

”She doesn't trust you either.”

”For Maker's sake, she is a handsome woman, but I am the last person to threaten her maidenhood, she must be aware of that. Or is it about me being the Evil Magister again?”

”I believe it is about you disapproving of her choice of a nightshirt two weeks ago,” the Inquisitor says and tries to look strict. Dorian lets out an exasperated sound.

”It was an offensively pink flannel monstrosity with criminal amount of frilly things, and I stand behind my words!”

Bull, who is looking way too intrigued for his own good, opens his mouth to say something Trevelyan just _knows_ she does not want to hear. She raises her hands hastily and cuts the Qunari off.

”Be that as it may - she said no. If you want to discuss this further, take it to her.”

Dorian glances at the Seeker who is chopping wood further away. She looks awfully brisk and determined.

”Ahhh – that's fine.” Dorian swallows. ”I'll share with the ox.” He turns sharply to Bull. ”No snoring!”

”No bitching!”

”And for the Maker's mercy, bathe yourself, you smell like you tumbled into a druffalo.”

” _Excellent_ idea,” chirps Trevelyan. ”Why don’t you two go right now, before it gets dark.”

”Bad plan,” mumbles Dorian. ”He will surely pollute the water.”

 

***

 

The stream is clear and smells sweet.

Bull hums, gets naked, and wades in: his shoulder is hurting a bit - he was careless striking a bear earlier - and now the cool, soothing water feels wonderful on his skin. He chooses a spot deep enough, and sinks in with a content sigh, minding his bad knee just a bit. Little pebbles rub pleasantly at his tired feet.

Dorian is standing nearby, pulling down his ridiculous silky underthings. Bull is not planning on ogling him, but he is there, and he is worth looking at, so Bull does.

Bull knows the man is handsome. Everyone knows Dorian is handsome, Dorian keeps on reminding them, and although Bull’s got only one eye, with this he agrees. It is right there, in-your-face: Dorian carries his beauty like a banner or a torch, and - Bull knows - not a little like an armor. But the thing is... Bull rarely bothers to really look. He is always too busy analyzing Dorian's behavior: paying attention to things the mage says and does (and doesn't), feeling an uncomfortable clench in his gut when Dorian gets too Tevinter-y, which is all the time. 

Even now Bull’s suspicious eye is imperceptibly searching for any scars which would refer to the use of blood magic. He doesn't _think_ Dorian is a blood mage, at least not the kind that uses slaves for it, but one can never be too careful.

Unfair? Perhaps, but there are some things one can never get over.

Dorian is slowly stepping in and complaining about the uneven bottom and the coldness of the water. The golden evening light is reflecting off the surface, casting tiny sparkling specks, like diamonds, on his brown skin and dusty ebony hair.

Bull's eye narrows.

He may not like Dorian much, but now that he is _looking_ … well. It is hard not to be affected. The mage looks like a goddamn marble statue: he is tall, smooth, muscular, and graceful - and as if the body wasn't enough, he just has to be blessed with amazing hair and a magnificent face. Even his dick is pretty. And, of course, to prevent this perfection from bordering boring, there's got to be those little, endearing quirks about his looks that make him _interesting_ …such as that cute beauty mark under his eye. 

Too bad this enchanting shell is ruined by the creature living inside it.

_”Fasta vass!”_ Dorian almost falls over - an accomplishment, certainly - and gives Bull a murderous look, as if this is his fault. The Qunari leans back and smirks.

”Careful there, Vint. Wouldn't want to see you drown.”

”Oh, I think you rather would.”

”Sit down and stop whining.”

Dorian does, but not without pouting, and Bull notices that his mouth is full and very sensual. Were he a meaner man, he might make a joke about the mage’s constant complaining and stitching his lips shut - but of course Bull won’t. _Always blunt, never cruel_ , one of his superiors wrote in his evaluation form, when Hissrad was a young man still, just starting his career with Ben-Hassrath.

Bull always liked that; he made an effort to live by that.

Even if it means dealing with snotty Vints.

 

***

 

Dorian wastes no time. He scrubs his body clean with swift movements, washes and rinses his hair, and gets out of the cool water – he can't stay there as long as the big brute of a Qunari, without getting cold.

He gets his rough towel and dries himself carefully; then he breaks out his body oil and begins to lather the lovely, golden liquid on his skin. He is doing his best to ignore Bull, who is still staring.

It is not that Dorian minds the attention - normally he downright thrives on it - and honestly, who can blame the oxman for gazing? But there is something about the intense stare of that lone, pale eye that just makes his skin crawl.

“You do understand,” he says, “that I may have to start asking admission fees if you keep that up.”

Bull tilts his head.

“I’ve seen worse shows.”

“No doubt about it.”

The Qunari scratches some part of his anatomy underwater. ”So… you do that every night, here in the field too?”

”After I bathe, yes.”

”It is ridiculous,” Bull states. Dorian clicks his tongue.

”Which one of us is famous for their wonderful skin, Bull? What is that? Not you? Well, I never...” Dorian glides his nimble fingers over the shiny pectorals and down to his sides. He gives Bull a glance. ”It is not that different from your horn balm, you know.”

The Qunari takes a deep inhale.

”Jasmine and sandalwood?”

”Quite so.” Dorian is massaging his glutes, shamelessly. He knows he has a very, very nice ass: firm and smooth with exquisite round shape. ”Do you like it?” 

Bull looks taken aback. Dorian rolls his eyes. ” _The scent_ , you pervert.”

”Oh. I guess. What I don't like is the fact that since the boss forces us to share the tent, my clothes and things will be smelling like you for weeks after this trip.”

”A blessing, most certainly.”

He means it too. He doesn’t really dislike the Qunari’s smell, but it is definitely _different_ : warm, strong, slightly bitter and metallic with musky undertones and a hint of something that reminds him of hay. It takes some time to get used to. And Dorian does not want to get used to it: he’d rather cover it - not that his oil is very overpowering, on the contrary, it is quite subtle and sophisticated.

Dorian closes the bottle, puts it away, and stands still for a while, allowing the oil to get absorbed. He stretches his arms a bit, admiring the way his skin is glistening in the sunset - he’s never been one for mock modesty after all.

Bull gets up. There's loads of swearing in Qunlat, probably because of his knee. Dorian politely turns away. He listens to the splashing and stomping, and then the Qunari is on the shore; on his way to his clothes he passes Dorian so close the mage can feel the heat of his massive body.

”Get dressed, pretty boy,” Bull says. ”We better head back, I don’t like leaving the ladies by themselves this long.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow, but refuses to look at Bull.

“...you worry about _the Inquisitor and the Seeker?_ The two women clad in metal and armed to the teeth? The two women who could probably kick your behind in a fair fight?”

He can _hear_ the Qunari smirking.

“Now you are just making me all hot and bothered.”

They don't talk on their way back to the camp. They walk side by side, taking care not to bump into each other accidentally, and Dorian comes to think there is something different about Bull all of a sudden - and then he realizes Bull hasn't put his leg brace back on, so his step is quiet. For whatever reason Dorian finds himself almost missing the soft clicking of the damned thing. Funny how one gets used to things.

Trevelyan is oddly happy to see them.

”We set your tent up while you were gone,” she says, and there is a sparkle in her turquoise eye. Dorian feels the uncomfortable tightening in his gut.

”How very sweet.” He swallows. “Listen, Evie, are you sure this is the... I mean - oh, darling girl: I’d really rather spend the night with _you_.” 

It is totally intentional, of course, the intimate use of the first name, the slight innuendo, and Dorian serves it with the most charming, slightly saddened smile which usually gives him exactly what he wants. 

Sure enough, Trevelyan flushes and visibly hesitates. She adores Dorian, and the mage knows it. Encouraged, he turns up the brightness and heat of his smile.

“I have a bottle of _Rowan’s Rose_ in my pack.” He leans closer and lowers his voice, until it is something to be felt, rather than heard. _“I will massage your feet.”_

It is not an empty promise either: he’s done it before and he’d happily do it again - anything to get away from sharing the tent with the ox. Trevelyan, apparently reminiscing his magically heated hands, lets out a faint moan. Bull, who has meanwhile added some wood to the fire and grabbed himself some food, slaps Dorian on the back.

“Leave her alone, you manipulative bastard. A couple of nights with me won’t kill you.” He makes a minimal stop there, and Dorian can practically hear the leery comment following - but then the Qunari just laughs and inhales his chunk of dried meat in two bites. “You two can braid each other’s hair another time.” 

Dorian gives Bull an offended look.

“As far as I remember, you weren’t too keen on this idea, either.”

“Am not. But sometimes you just need to accept things and move on. So let’s move on.” He raises his finger. “But there will be no rubbing my footsies.” Dorian lets out an indignant sound.

“If you think for one moment that I would ever touch your filthy -”

“Knock it off, you two, and get into your damn tent,” Cassandra barks from the other side of the fire. She is focused on oiling her blade and refuses to even glance at them. The mage sighs, defeated, and turns his attention back to Trevelyan.

“At least, allow me to take the first watch.”

The Inquisitor, who has somewhat pulled herself together, makes an apologetic face.

”Cassandra wants the first one, I'd like to take the next. Third one all right?”

”...yes. Of course.”

Dorian watches as Bull bends over and slips in the large tent reserved for them. A moment later he apparently locates a lantern, as the whole thing lights up like a dim giant lamp. Oh well. Dorian takes a deep breath and crawls inside as well.

”I'll sleep by the door,” Bull states offhand. ”Just in case.”

Dorian frowns.

”In case of what?”

”In case something happens. In case I need to get out and fight. In case someone tries to sneak in.”

”For whatever reason you don’t seem to have much confidence in your companion's ability to defend themselves.” Dorian lifts his chin defiantly. “I assure you I can handle myself.” 

Bull huffs.

”Yeah - no. Get your bedroll over there.”

”Bossy,” Dorian mutters. He is really getting fed up with everyone pushing him around today. The Qunari grins.

”You have _no_ idea.”

Dorian ignores the quip - _whatever_ that referred to - and wonders if Bull is this way with the Chargers too. Probably, since he’s heard Aclassi calling the Qunari Mother Hen more than on one occasion. He purses his lips and sets his bedroll on the spot Bull shows him. The tent may be larger than normal, but considering the Qunari's size, they will still be way too close to each other.

He sits down, and removes his boots and shirt - and then he stops, because he notices Bull sniffing the air and making faces.

”Now what?”

”Smells like Orlesian whorehouse,” Bull states.

”You said you like the scent!”

”I do.”

The mage resists the urge to dig out the oil bottle and pour it all over the Qunari's bedroll.

”Smelling good is not a bad thing.” Dorian's voice is notably dry. ”Makes you popular with the ladies too, I hear.”

”Like I need help,” Bull snorts. He lies down and begins to rub the base of his mighty horns. ”Told you: I just don't like having your scent on me.”

”I still don't see why.”

Bull's jaw line tightens a bit.

”Because it kinda hints that we are... involved. It is a Qunari thing.”

”Seriously, Bull?” Dorian looks almost bored. ”You are such a child. My oil smells like flowers and spices, not of bodily fluids and pheromones; certainly your race's heightened senses can spot the difference?”

”Too close for comfort.”

Dorian shakes his head and crawls under the covers. He is planning on letting the thing go, but then he just can't resist. He leans up on his elbows and gives the sulking Qunari a curious look.

”Why would you care anyway? You sleep with anyone and anything, no standards whatsoever.”

Bull gives him a dark stare.

“I am not sleeping with _you_ , though.”

“Thank the Maker for small mercies.”

”There's nothing small involved, trust me.”

Dorian looks away and flushes beautifully. Bull bursts out laughing.

”Are we blushing, Dorian? Who knew you could be so bashful under all that decadence.”

”Shut up.”

”Or maybe you are getting some ideas, huh?”

Dorian arches one tastefully trimmed eyebrow.

”Excuse me?”

”Oh, I don't know... considering the way you are showing off your naked body around me, and the literature you consume...”

Dorian raises his hand and stops him.

”Let me put this so plainly that even your simple mind can comprehend it: I am not interested, I will never be interested, and if you keep this up, I will fry your horns. Go be suggestive with someone else.”

Bull smiles intently.

”Calm down, Vint. I am just picking on you.” He shrugs. ”Seriously, I don’t fuck mages. Especially Tevinter mages.”

“And I don't fuck beastly Qunari savages. How very convenient, for both of us.”

”Works for me.”

Bull blows out the lantern. Dorian closes his eye and tries to relax. It is hard. Bull is too damn big and too damn close - and he will certainly start snoring any moment now, Dorian _knows_. And it is going to be unbearable. 

The worst part, though, is the whole idea of sharing a tent with a Qunari, an ex-Ben-Hassrath, for Maker's sake.

Dorian sighs quietly.

It is not that he hates Bull, exactly. They are teammates with the common goal, and the man, while insufferable, is not totally without good qualities. His huge bulk and notable skills are definitely something to be appreciated in the battlefield, and he has certain rough charisma which goes nicely with his mercenary captain act: Bull is easy-going, endlessly patient, and deceivingly open.

The problem is, the Qunari are devious folk. Tevinter propaganda loves to represent them as primitive beasts - and fine, Dorian treats Bull like one - but it doesn't take much research to figure out they are efficient, ruthless, clever, and technologically superior to any other people in Thedas. They are _terrifying_ as far as Dorian is concerned, and Ben-Hassrath are the worst of the bunch. And Bull used to belong to them. And the fact that Bull was chosen to join the Inquisition means he was amongst their top operators; it means he can be anything, and he will do anything...

And that is why Dorian can never truly trust him. In fact, who can even tell if the whole separation from the Qun thing isn’t just another act?

Dorian pushes the thought out of his mind almost immediately: he remembers Bull’s face when he returned from the Storm Coast. Bull was broken, inconsolable. And then there were the assassins. Certainly he is a Tal-Vashoth now. Certainly...

The mage turns his head; there is a faint glow from the fire outside squeezing through the seams and underside of the tent, and he can easily see Bull's unmoving body. His ridiculous horns and bare arms are gleaming, his wide chest rising and falling peacefully.

”Go to sleep, Dorian,” Bull says softly. ”I won't murder you in your sleep.”

The mage groans and flips on his side.


	4. Day Seven, The Emerald Graves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [Fen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan) for being the great beta that you are! :D <3

”Well,” says Trevelyn as they step out of Chateau d'Onterre. ”Am I ever happy to be out of there.”

”That makes two of us,” Bull rumbles. “Fucking creepy.”

They spent an exhausting afternoon lurking inside the dark, abandoned building; purging the unending hordes of undead and solving ominous puzzles, until they finally confronted and slayed the Arcane Horror which had taken over the place. 

”Such needless tragedy,” muses Cassandra, as she studies the crest ring they looted. ”If only they had sent the girl to a Circle, they’d all be alive.”

“Indeed.” Dorian shakes his head. “Without proper training she was an all too easy catch for the Demon.”

“You mean, the thing - used to be the girl?” Bull sounds extremely uncomfortable. Dorian smiles thinly.

“I see you haven’t been paying much attention, have you, Bull?” He clicks his tongue. “And to think you used to call yourself a spy.”

“Hey, if it’s demons, I don’t pay attention beyond cracking their skull.”

“In that case - yes. _The thing_ used to be the girl. See, Bull, when a Pride Demon takes over a mage, an Arcane Horror is born. This, of course, doesn’t -”

Dorian’s lecturing is interrupted by a faint, miserable yowling perhaps twenty paces away. Everyone stops, suspicious and alert - it is clearly an animal of some sort, not very large, but definitely distressed. Trevelyan opens her mouth and is about to tell everyone to stay put, when she realizes that Dorian is already halfway to the source of the noise.

”Dorian, wait!”

The mage carefully lifts some lush sprigs covering the end of a long, stone-framed tree planter right by the gate of the chateau. He is greeted by furious hissing.

”Oh,” Dorian says. He reaches for something, but pulls his hand back quickly and swears. He sucks his bleeding finger, and turns to look at his companions, who are now approaching. ”A cat - a _feral cat_ , clearly. With some offspring.” He snorts. “How very typical: didn’t get a single scratch fighting a demon, but Maker forbid I try and help a pesky feline and I get mauled to death.”

Dorian makes an attempt to sound haughty, but there is a shy smile pulling the side of his mouth. A genuine smile, Trevelyan realizes, charmed by the notion as much as the idea of kittens.

”I am pretty sure you are exaggerating somewhat.” She grins and tries to see behind the mage. “What is wrong with her? Is she hurt?”

”I am not sure.” Dorian turns again to peek at the cat, who is still hissing and spitting behind the leaves. ”Calm down, creature,” he commands. The hissing continues. He glances at the others. ”I see how it is. Fine then. I am going to cast peaceful aura.”

”Just no blood magic, thank you,” Bull grunts. Dorian raises a bloody finger.

“This is spirit magic, you heathen. Just because I am bleeding, it doesn’t mean I am about to resort to the ways of my misguided peers.” He makes a smooth, wide gesture with his hand. “Now, hush.”

Trevelyan senses a slow, gentle pulse of serenity, and the world around them changes: everything feels warm, calm, and deep somehow, as if tinted with heavy golden light. She is immediately reminded of the sunny, lazy afternoons of her carefree childhood; she can almost smell the sweet clematis in her Grandma’s garden, hear the sleepily buzzing insects.

This is the first time Trevelyan has been inside the aura, and the effect makes her let out a surprised, delighted laughter; she knows it is a trick - but when was the last time she felt this peaceful and safe? She allows herself to embrace the dream-like feeling for a moment before sharpening up again. She glances at her companions. Cassandra is smiling as well, looking lost in thought; one rarely sees her like this, soft and at ease. Bull, for his part, is focused on Dorian with dreadful intensity, more distressed than relaxed, but definitely in awe.

The cat, too, has gone quiet. Dorian parts the sprigs again, and now they can all see it: a grey tabby with a ratty tail is staring at the mage with mesmerized emerald eyes, and right behind her, crawling in a shallow nest on top of the planter, three furry kittens: one black, two grey - so young their eyes are barely open.

_”Ohhh,”_ Bull says. Dorian makes a low, appeasing sound, and leans closer. There is a small crevice right where the planter meets the stone wall. He bends down, conjures a tiny wisp of light, and takes a peek.

”One of them has fallen in.”

Trevelyan walks by him and also takes a look: the hole is too narrow and too deep for the mother to reach her young. Without hesitation Dorian dips his arm in, and pulls out a miserable looking, weakly meowing kitten. It is grey as well, with beautiful patterns, slightly bigger than the others.

”Now, now,” the mage says. He examines the poor creature carefully, feeling its head, lifting little paws, gently pressing its sides. ”He seems fine… must not have been there for long.”

”We’d better fill that crevice with something,” the Inquisitor decides, and begins to shove some dirt and pebbles into the hole. Cassandra helps her.

Bull moves surreptitiously next to Dorian. His huge finger approaches and touches the tiny, rosy nose.

”Look at that little fellow.”

”I didn't know you like cats.”

”I like most things that are not demons.” Bull thinks for a moment. “Or mosquitoes. Mosquitoes are kinda shitty. Also, there were these bright green snakes in Seheron I wasn’t crazy about.”

He tickles the furry chin with the tip of his blunt claw. Dorian frowns.

”Isn't that… un-Qunari, somehow? To appreciate something just for the cuteness of it?”

”Lots to appreciate here: cats are very useful. That, and they have warm, fluffy bellies - come on, let me hold him.”

”Just don't crush him with your hooves.”

Dorian gives the kitten to Bull; the Qunari holds the tiny animal in his giant hand, then presses it against his face and makes a deep, thunderous purring sound. Dorian covers a smile and reaches up to smooth the kitten's bony spine.

“I wasn’t aware you can do _that_.”

“Many things I can do you are not aware of,” Bull mutters and rubs his nose against the kitten’s belly. 

“I am sure your skill to purr convincingly becomes very handy in numerous situations.”

Bull gives the mage a look that is downright leery.

“Oh, it does. See how this kitty here likes it? Well, let me tell you kitties usually do, it’s _the vibrations_.” He actually _winks_ at Dorian. “I know it’s not exactly your thing, Dorian, but with some creativity it could be right up your -”

Trevelyan, who’s been keeping an eye on them, groans at the same time Dorian does: “Bull, please!”

“Sorry, boss. Got carried away.” The Qunari tries to balance the kitten between his horns. Dorian swears and raises his hands in case the lummox manages to drop the poor thing. The Inquisitor smiles. 

“You three are pretty cute.”

Dorian scoffs: ”You mean _two_ of us are cute, surely.”

”Aw, come on, Dorian,” Bull purses his lips. ”Don’t sell yourself short, you’re kinda nice-looking in certain light.”

The Inquisitor laughs; Dorian rolls his eyes. Cassandra pats the mound on the now filled crevice, and steps aside.

”All right, put him back. He needs to eat, and his mama is worried.”

Bull kisses the kitten affectionately and lays him by his siblings. Trevelyan glances at Dorian; the mage is looking at the Qunari. He seems thoughtful.

 

***

 

Back in the base camp, Trevelyan hurries to talk to scout Harding. Cassandra goes with her. Bull and Dorian sneak by the fire, fill their bowls with stew, and retire to sit by some trees.

Bull settles carefully down on the soft moss, sighs, and begins to spoon the stew in his mouth. It is pretty bland, but he is not complaining. Dorian, on the other hand, is very much complaining.

”Would it really be that hard to find some spices? Or even salt? I am sure there are some kind of herbs or berries growing in these cursed woods one could use.”

He ends up eating about half of the portion and then pushes his plate away. Bull finishes his, lets out a satisfied sigh, and begins to rub his back on the rough bark of the oak he is leaning against.

Dorian takes off his boot and stares at his foot. Bull steels himself for what he knows is coming.

”I am _not_ made for the outdoors,” the mage states with conviction. ”I am made for libraries, luxurious bedrooms, and fancy parties.”

Bull keeps on rubbing his back against the tree, like a bear.

”Nature, by its very nature, is hostile,” Dorian continues. ”And it seems, that it is particularly hostile towards me. In fact, by now I am pretty sure it is trying to actively murder me. Think about it: wherever we go, it is always too hot, too cold, too wet. Ice, and sand, and swamps, and mosquitoes – violent wildlife – poisonous plants – ” He stops and shoves Bull with his elbow. ”Could you stop doing that, please? You are about to knock the tree over!”

Bull grunts, but stops moving. Dorian leans over to take a better look at his foot. Bull gives it a glance. He can't see anything wrong with it.

”I am about to get a blister,” Dorian says. ”I swear.”

”Want me to kiss it better?” Bull asks, not too friendly.

”Thank you kindly, but I don't fancy blood poisoning.”

”You change your mind, you let me know.”

Dorian comes to think of something.

”How is your knee?”

Bull shrugs.

”Worse than your puny foot, I'm sure. But I'll live.”

”Anything I can do?”

Bull's eye widens. He must be hearing things. Dorian, who notices his thunderstruck expression, clicks his tongue. ”Well, I _am_ a mage. I know you don't quite trust me, and granted, I am not much of a healer and there are better ones present, but...”

Bull inspects his face for the longest time. He almost goes for it.

”No need,” he blurts. ”But thanks.”

”Worried I might fry your leg?” Dorian doesn't sound offended, but his voice is smaller than usual. Bull shrugs.

”Something like that.”

”All right.”

They sit in silence, staring at the dark tree tops. The stars are beginning to appear on the sky, cold and distant, unmoved by anything happening in their world. Dorian fiddles the smooth hem of his short robe.

”Do you ever wonder...” he starts and pauses abruptly. Bull turns his horned head.

”Do I ever wonder what?”

”I was just thinking, what if we had met somewhere else.”

”You mean like in Seheron?”

”I suppose it would have been -” Dorian bows his head. ”Well.”

Bull frowns. The thought makes him… _sad_ is not the word. But there is some level of regret there.

”Honestly? I would have looked at you, said to myself now there's a handsome fucker, and then I would have killed you.” Dorian doesn't say anything. Bull shrugs; he is a practical man. ”You would have tried to electrocute me on sight. It's war.”

”To be fair, I am tempted to electrocute you now.”

They both laugh at that, but it is not very heartfelt, and it doesn't last for long. Dorian gets up and stretches his arms gracefully.

”Well, I believe I am going to retire for tonight.” He won't look Bull in the face. The Qunari nods. He won't look Dorian in the face either.

”Sure. Let's get the tent up.”

Neither one of them brings up the fact that now that they are in the base camp, there is no real reason to stick with their current sleeping arrangement. They get the tent up in a matter of minutes; Dorian crawls in right away, half asleep already – he's been doing loads of casting, and it tends to wear him out. Bull laughs at him, and heads for the bushes to relieve himself.

On his way back, he notices a young scout by one of the fires. He is smiling.

”Evening,” the scout says. Bull smiles right back, 'cause that's what he does. The boy lets his gaze sweep the Qunari’s chest and shoulders, then returns to Bull’s eye. ”Care for company tonight?”

Bull looks at him. Straw-blond hair, fair skin, rosy cheeks. Bull does find him pretty - but somehow he doesn't find himself attracted.

”Thanks,” Bull hears himself say, and he must wonder if he is losing his fucking mind. ”Not tonight.”

 

***

 

”Cole,” says Trevelyan. ”I’ve been looking for you.”

The spirit boy blinks his pale eyes. He is sitting under a partly collapsed stone arch, quiet and unmoving. Trevelyan wonders if this is what he does, when all the others are sleeping.

”I am looking at the stars,” he says. 

“Very good, Cole.”

“They are bright.”

”Yes, they are.”

”They are far.”

”Yes – listen, may I talk to you for a moment?”

”You may.”

The Inquisitor sits next to him. It is late, and only Cole, a couple of guards, and the Inquisitor herself are awake. Trevelyan leans closer and lowers her voice almost to a whisper.

”I am going to take you out with the team tomorrow, Cole. And I was wondering...” She hesitates, as if not sure how to set her words. ”Could you say things that make the Iron Bull and Dorian look... nice?”

”I don't understand.”

”Well. You know how you keep on helping people? Talking about their pain? I need you to bring up something good. Something that makes them sound likeable.”

Cole considers.

”But I like them already.”

”Yes, sweetie. But I want them to like _each other_. See?”

Trevelyan tries to look encouraging. Cole frowns.

”It is difficult for them, all twisted, scary, tempting, they never knew otherwise. One must not, one _must not_.” He stops and stares in the nothingness. “Magisters flapping like black crows on the shore, shooting fire and pain through the morning mist until it tastes like metal, am I the last one of my unit?”

“Exactly why -”

“Monsters, Dorian: you ever see one, you must run, remember this, _always remember_ this. Stupid ox, why is he looking at me like that?”

Trevelyan swallows, trying to numb the uncomfortable feeling in her chest.

“Surely it is not all bad?”

Cole closes his eyes.

“Tama burned it in her little lamp, called it sandalwood - it had to be sandalwood, it smells like home on his pretty skin.” The boy pauses. “Big hands impossibly gentle, as he is holding the kitten. Strong and kind then, but should it mean something?” Cole blinks and turns to look at Trevelyan. “The kitten is all right.”

“Glad to hear it.” The Inquisitor smiles. “So. There’s hope for those too?”

”Hope.” Cole looks worried. ”I can try.”

”That's all I am asking. Thank you, Cole.”

The Inquisitor pats the spirit boy on the back, and heads towards her tent, still shaken, but all in all quite pleased with herself. Tomorrow should be interesting.


	5. Day Eight, The Emerald Graves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, things are beginning to heat up a bit... 
> 
> *showers kisses and rose petals on [Fen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan) for being the ah-mazing beta* <3

Trevelyan stares at Fairbanks and considers. The man has asked for the Inquisition's help with the Freemen who keep on bothering his group of refugees. It is another problem that is, strictly speaking, none of her business, but since the Freemen are canoodling with the enemy, and since Fairbanks may have some valuable information…

”I'll look into it,” she says. The Orlesian bows stiffly. He seems like a decent man, as far as Trevelyan can tell, so she offers him a smile. While collecting documents in the camp and chatting with people, Trevelyan picks up the hints that Fairbanks might be of noble birth and that there could be a way to prove it - Trevelyan is not sure she wants to get involved at this point. Is that kind of thing worth her time, really? She concentrates on the intel on the rebels instead.

”Looks like we need to head for a Veridium Mine that lies north-east of here,” Trevelyan says after taking a closer look at the papers she's found. ”And find this… sister Costeau who's been causing so much trouble.”

”Lovely,” mumbles Dorian and leans heavily on his staff. ”I adore mines. If we are lucky there will be giant spiders.”

”Cheer up,Vint!” Bull sounds way too happy. ”At least we get to mess with a sister - that's always fun.”

”Indeed.” Dorian rolls his eyes. “I remember you desecrating one in Haven.”

“Hey, if a lady is curious...”

“I am sure she was.”

“Multiple times too.”

”Enough,” Trevelyan snaps, and does her best not to blush. This is not the direction she wants the conversation to take, so she is going to nip it in the bud. “Let’s move.”

The day is mild and cloudy as they make their way out of the canyon and then through the trees. They stay on their toes for there are indeed rebels all over the place, not to mention bears. Despite that, everyone seems to be in a pretty jolly mood - everyone except Cole.

Trevelyan, who's been waiting all day for the boy to talk, is trying to make faces at him when the others are not looking, but they go pretty much unnoticed; the spirit is clearly in deep thought. Then finally:

”The Iron Bull, a woman in the refugee camp wanted you to pick her up and take her clothes off.”

Trevelyan barely suppresses a pained whine. Bull nods, serious.

”Most people do.”

”For Maker's sake...” Dorian groans.

”In her mind, you were very big,” Cole continues.

”Well, that's flattering.” Bull grins. ”True too. Too bad you didn't tell me this when we were there, could have helped her with those clothes.”

”You are _nice_ , The Iron Bull,” Cole states loud and emphatically. “You want to help.”

”Sure thing, kid. You tell me if this happens again.”

A pleased smile spreads on Cole’s angular face. Visibly encouraged and excited now, he turns to Dorian. ” _Your_ clothes look like the Fade, Dorian.” 

The mage lets out an airy sigh and smooths his hand over his outfit; today he is wearing short saffron silk robes with a magnificent snake motif embroidered with delicate silver threads. ”Ah. The stuff of dreams, an explosion of color and sensation wrapped in an enigma.”

”It's shiny.” Cole seems to be searching for words. “Always shiny and handsome, people like handsome, handsome is... nice.“

“One might assume so, yes.” Dorian looks gentle. “However, it is not quite that simple.”

Bull clears his throat: ”Hey, kid, just to be clear - you're not by any chance hinting the pretty boy here wants me to take his dress off too, are you? I’d rather know for sure so I won’t get my hands burnt off.” He is smirking, intrigued. His eye sparkles. Dorian hisses, with all his hackles up.

”Not everyone desires your advances, you lout!”

”I'm pretty sure you're wrong.”

”I'm pretty sure you are delusional.”

“Come on, no need to be coy about it -”

Cole lets out a tiny sound and covers his face. “Bright, like the fish that kill you if you eat them. Can't hate you for hiding if you burn so brilliantly,” he whispers.

They all turn to stare at him. Trevelyan pinches the bridge of her nose. This is not at all what she had in mind when he asked Cole to get involved.

”Let's move on,” she grunts. ”I think I hear some rebels right behind that cliff.”

To her relief, she is right. She quite needs to hit someone.

 

***

 

The mine, it turns out, does not contain any spiders; it does, however contain a bunch of experienced freemen fighters and one iron-clad sister Costeau.

They have no problem dealing with them, of course. Bull is like a scythe cutting through hay, swinging his maul and crushing bones; Trevelyan and Cole stay out of his way and find some targets of their own for their deadly daggers; Dorian stays in the background and keeps everyone's barriers up, casting ice or fire every now and then.

They are up to their last enemies, when it happens. Dorian is keeping a keen eye on Bull who is now face to face with sister Costeau, and realizes the Qunari's barrier is about to fade - as is his own. Right at that moment a rebel Dorian didn't notice before, manages to sneak behind him. Dorian dives and rolls to avoid a swing he can feel coming. He raises his hand -

\- and casts the barrier on Bull.

That he manages to survive the next attempt to slash him is pure luck; he rolls blindly into another direction, reaches for the Fade again and sends a scorching burst of flame right into his opponent's face. The man screams and falls.

Dorian gets up and almost stumbles. He sees the battle is over; Bull is just kicking sister Costeau's body over, Cole is standing still, looking at him thoughtfully, and Trevelyan is wiping her forehead.

”Everyone okay?” she shouts. Dorian touches his side; the fabric is torn and feels slightly damp. He looks at his fingers. There's blood, but not much - just a scratch then. He sighs, relieved.

That is until he notices the Iron Bull marching towards him. The Qunari looks absolutely livid.

”You _idiot!_ ” he bellows. The mage blinks and takes a step back. Trevelyan, who is about to start gathering the loot, frowns.

”What's wrong now?”

”You _idiot_ cast a barrier on me, when you should have defended yourself!” Bull's eye is blazing. Dorian takes another step back.

”But I am fine -” he tries. Bull bares his teeth.

”That is not the point! I would have survived without the fucking barrier, you barely did!”

Cole, who is immediately getting anxious with the yelling and emotional turmoil, begins to whine.

”He doesn't mean it, he doesn't mean it, he got scared. No, no, no, no -”

Trevelyan grabs his arm.

”Let's go over that way and see if we can find anything else of value. All right? I think there are prisoners too we should be looking for.” She points at Bull and Dorian. ”You two - don't kill each other. Sort it out.”

Dorian gives her a panicked glance; he really doesn't want to be left alone with the raging giant. He takes yet another step and his back hits the stone. Bull follows, looms over him, clenching his fists. Dorian swallows.

”Bull -”

”Never, _ever_ , do that again!”

Dorian feels the first wave of irritation, and in the next breath it explodes into full scale anger.

”I did what I am supposed to do, you fool! I can take care of myself, and as I said, I am fine! Stop talking to me like I am one of your damn Chargers, you are not my -”

Dorian is scooped up and rammed against the wall. Bull presses close, so close, that their bodies are flush against each other, and _growls_. Dorian gasps. Bull's face is right there, inches away from his: Dorian can see the silver flecks in that lone narrow eye, feel the deep rumble emitting from that massive ribcage echoing inside his own body. The Qunari's hot breath is sweeping over his lips. 

Dorian whimpers and for one horrific moment he is certain Bull is either going to kiss him or rip his throat open. 

Bull pulls off, and drops him on the floor.

_”Vashedan!”_

Dorian falls on his bottom and stares flabbergasted at Bull's twitching, muscular back, as he walks away, swearing furiously in Qunlat. Then all of a sudden the Qunari turns around, comes back to Dorian, lifts him up, carefully cleans the dust off his pants - and walks away again.

”Move you ass, Vint!”

It is a command: undeniable, cold, unnecessarily harsh. Dorian takes a deep breath, gets his shaking legs under control, and follows quietly. He may not be one of the Chargers, but he knows better than to open his mouth right now.

 

***

 

They are half way back to the base camp when Bull feels the first sting of guilt.

He won't look straight at Dorian; it would be too obvious, since the mage has taken a habit of walking on his blind side - rather sweet, actually, now that he comes to think of it, Krem does the same thing - and he'd have to turn his head all the way. He does however slow his pace, so that Trevelyan and the still-upset Cole have the chance to get a little further ahead. Dorian matches his step with Bull's.

”You angry with me?” Bull asks. Dorian doesn't answer right away.

”Does it matter?”

”Nah.” Bull pauses. ”Well. I'd rather you weren't.”

The mage takes a deep breath.

”Are _you_ still angry with _me?_ ”

”Somewhat.”

They keep on walking. Bull turns to glance at Dorian now. The late sunlight streaming through the tree trunks is gilding the mage’s frowny face and the tip of his fancy snake-shaped staff. He looks very young somehow.

”I am sorry I pushed you around,” Bull says. Dorian doesn’t hesitate:

”I am sorry I cast a protective barrier on your pathetic ass.”

The Qunari snorts. Dorian smiles a bit, and pretends to be interested in some small birds flying by. Bull looks at his plump, softly curving mouth. How... funny that someone with such a prickly tongue should have a mouth like that.

”It’s been a hard day,” Dorian sighs. “I am so ready for bed.”

Bull swallows.

”Yeah. Yeah, so am I.”

 

***

 

Dorian is standing in the middle of a shimmering flower field.

He doesn't recognize this part of the Fade, so he doesn't think it is a memory, rather something his mind is creating - but it looks lovely with the glimmering emerald skies and the pleasant landscape. Everything twists, vibrates, whispers, breathes. He lets his hands caress the tall, pale flowers, and smiles.

Someone clears their throat behind him. Dorian turns.

A considerate-looking Desire Demon stands amongst the flowers. It seems to have problems deciding which form to take; the stunning young man with lavender skin and ram horns flickers and turns into one with copper skin and turquoise eyes, then into something that remotely looks like Commander Cullen -

”Yes?” Dorian says, amused. The Demon assumes the familiar form of a giant, one-eyed Qunari. The mage groans. ”You've _got to_ be kidding!”

”Hello, Dorian,” the Qunari purrs, and steps closer. It looks authentic: same scarred face, same rumbling voice. Same rough hands with missing fingers. Maker, this is beyond ridiculous! Dorian turns, angry, and continues his walking. The Demon follows.

”Dorian...” There's definitely laughter in that voice. The mage turns again.

” _That's_ the best you can do? Truly?”

Desire looks offended - it has every right to, after all, it only manifests what its target is coveting.

”This is the best _you_ can do, in fact,” the Demon states. ”As you are well aware.”

”Well, there's some kind of a mistake. You are reading me wrong.”

The Demon wearing the Iron Bull looks Dorian dead in the eye and raises his hand. The mage feels long, strong fingers curling firmly around the back of his neck. The fingers are wrong: they are cold, harsh - but he still can’t help a violent, unexpected shiver running through him. 

Oh - oh, no. The Demon couldn't have got it right, could it? Desire chuckles and presses closer, its muscles gleaming and twisting in the greenish light, seductive and powerful. It sounds so much like the damn Qunari.

”Come on, Dorian,” it whispers. ”Let me make you feel good.”

Dorian steels himself and pushes the hand away. His knees are about to buckle. ”The answer is no. Leave, before I blow you up.” 

“You never refuse yourself what you want, Dorian. Come on now.”

Dorian gives the Demon an arrogant glance. ”If I wanted the big dummy, which I do not, I could get the real thing, I don't need substitutes.”

”Oh, but that's where you are wrong.” Dorian never sees the Demon move, all of a sudden it is right in front of him again, very naked and very erect. ”He does not want you. I am the only way.”

Dorian blushes, wondering how close to the real thing the large, heavy cock is, but then he gets something else to think about as the Demon's arm wraps around him: a cool, greedy hand glides in between his legs and rubs his length, which, admittedly, is getting painfully rigid now.

 _“I want you,”_ Desire hums, and it is like a thousand bees buzzing, “I want you more than he could ever want you,” (on some level this could very well be true), “let me in, and you can have this, always -”

Dorian pushes the hand away and slips readily from the embrace. 

”How very _Despair_ of you,” he snorts. He gives Desire a warning look. ”Enough with this foolishness, creature: _leave_. This will be the last time I am telling you.”

Dorian tries to look firm, act like he isn't affected. There have been times he has played with these things before commanding them to disappear or slaying them; it is easy enough if one is smart and powerful, as he is. He remembers how he once spent an absolutely delirious night with a Demon who pretended to be a very attractive and very straight fellow apprentice he had a crush on. (If he felt dirty afterwards, it didn’t last too long, he never claimed to be a good man after all.) 

But with this one, with this person, he just doesn't want to risk it. He might end up liking it too much. And he has to be able to face the real Bull in the morning.

The Demon seems to hesitate. Its form swells and then shrinks, it changes color - but then it decides to reach for Dorian again. The mage casts ice, and snaps his fingers. The demon shatters into sparkling fragments.

”Warned you,” Dorian mutters. He continues his walk across the field, but all the flowers have wilted now, and he is feeling upset and pretty stupid, so he wakes up.

Cole materializes by his bedroll, crouching in a strange, sluggish position, as if his body doesn’t quite yet know how to do things right. It is too dark to see his eyes under the rim of the big hat.

“...hello,” Dorian whispers. His body's still shaking.

“His hands are always warm,” Cole says.


	6. Day Nine, The Emerald Graves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes! Two updates this week! :D And YES - there will be smut! Actually, this chapter was originally one long smut fest, but I decided to split it in two as it was getting too long and needed a breather between the sexy bits.
> 
> Thank You, readers, for all the lovely comments, they thrill me no end!!! Also, Thank You (again) to my astonishing beta [Fen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan)! <3

”Scouting!” Dorian spits out the word, and lets his staff hit the ground a bit too hard. ”She sends us scouting!” He is grinding his teeth. ”Do I _look_ like a scout? Really! And what is the point of this? This is a secured area, this is stupid!”

”It is a nice day, and the woods are pretty.” Bull is trying very hard to stay in a good mood, and failing. ”Just hike up your skirt and keep walking, mage boy.”

”I am _not_ wearing a skirt, you uncivilized oaf!”

”You trip on that bustling whatever, don’t come crying to me.”

”I wouldn't come crying to you anyway!”

”Funny, 'cause that's exactly what you are doing.”

”Shut up.”

Dorian is in an awful mood. He mentioned earlier that he didn’t get much sleep last night, and sure, Bull sympathizes, he is no stranger to sleepless nights - but that is not any reason to act like this. The mage is just unbearable, making it clear that nothing, absolutely nothing, is right in the world. Bull is biting his lip as they walk ever deeper in the flush woods and he is forced to listen to Dorian whine about the terrain, the bugs, the wind, the birds, the imaginary pebble in his boot.

When the mage states that the sunshine is too bright yet somehow not bright enough, Bull’s just had it.

”You know,” he says abruptly, ”you are right: we should head back.”

Dorian throws his hands in the air.

”The Qunari has seen the light!” He turns around, sharply, and looks infuriatingly arrogant. ”Let's go then. Chop-chop.” He begins to march back the way they came from, and now his step is notably lighter. ”I really don't understand why she sent us here in the first place.”

Bull grimaces, unable to stop himself: ”You, who consider yourself _so_ superiorly intelligent, haven't figured that out yet?”

”What are you blabbering about?” Dorian looks confused. Bull laughs, but there isn't anything cheerful about it.

”Oh, Dorian, I am so disappointed in you.”

“Would you mind being a bit clearer with your innuendo?”

”She is trying to match us.”

The mage stops dead, incredulous.

”...what?”

”You heard me.”

Bull has been having his doubts - he is very, very clever - but he’s been actively ignoring the hints and the signs, the stubborn voice in the back of his mind, unwilling to face the ridiculous fact that the Inquisitor is trying to get him romantically involved with a Vint. Or at least he was able to ignore it all until this morning - when Trevelyan approached him and told him to “go get Dorian and check out the woods”, it was just... too much. Too far, too obvious, so in-your-face, that Bull almost bursted out laughing on the spot.

He agreed to go though, because why not? The day was lovely, he had nothing better to do, and Dorian, when in a good mood, is not half bad company.

Of course, as it turned out, Dorian is not in a good mood. At all. And Bull is pretty sure it’s about to get even worse.

Dorian's mouth hangs open. His face begins to turn deep red.

Bull is waiting for an explosion. It is inevitable, he can see it coming, he can practically hear it: _Vishante kaffas, is she insane? Just wait till I get my hands on her, how could she even think I’d ever be interested in you, fasta vass, this is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard!_ And so forth and so forth. 

Instead, Dorian deflates, all his vitriol gone, and... stares.

He just stares, his silver eyes huge and vivid. Now that Bull comes to think of it, this is the first time today Dorian’s actually looking him in the eye. Bull shifts his weight, unsure and uncomfortable. He is having trouble reading Dorian’s expression. He is usually good at it; humans are ridiculously easy to read after all, incapable of hiding their emotions, but now it is like Dorian himself is not sure what to feel. Bull thinks he can detect some level of fear and the thought immediately makes him feel ashamed; it reminds him too much of his outburst yesterday.

Bull does not want Dorian being afraid of him.

So he instinctively hunches, makes himself smaller, the way he always does when he doesn’t wish people to freak out - a constant problem when one is a giant with horns - and softens his voice:

“Dorian, listen -”

“Why?” The mage interrupts him, clearly upset now. “ _Why_ would she do such a thing?”

Bull shrugs, trying to act casual. “Who knows. She is young and naive. A hopeless romantic, intrigued by the whole Qunari-Tevinter thing or something.”

“She is out of her mind. We don’t - we don’t even -” Dorian won’t finish the sentence, but Bull can hear it anyway: _We don’t even like each other._

It is not totally true, of course. Now that they’ve been spending more time together, Bull can tell Dorian tolerates him way better than before; there’s been no attempts to change the sleeping arrangements, the mage hasn’t mentioned how badly Bull stinks for at least two days, and, well, one just doesn’t do the stunts like Dorian did in the Veridium mine for someone you absolutely loathe.

And Bull, for his part, is ready to admit that although the mage may be a pompous ass at times, in the end of the day they get along way better than he ever dared to hope for - to the point where Bull has even began to flirt with the altus a bit. 

In all honesty, apart from whining, Dorian is a good companion: fearless, reliable and ridiculously powerful. He is also capable of being surprisingly sweet when he puts his heart to it, especially towards Cole and Sera: his patience with them is nothing short of remarkable - not an easy feat from a person whose personality seems mostly be made out of thorn bushes and brimstone. In fact, there’s something about Dorian that reminds Bull of a cute, angry kitten (not unlike the ones they found yesterday), and the notion greatly amuses him. 

Now that Bull is thinking about it - well, yes, he _is_ sort of beginning to like the prickly Tevinter pariah. What can he say? He has a thing for troubled castaways.

Bull sighs and lays a careful hand on Dorian’s shoulder; rough fingers rub a small, soothing circle on the beautiful brown skin. “Hey, don’t worry about it. She is just being silly.” 

Dorian sways, as if unsure what to do. He closes his eyes for a moment and murmurs something. Bull tilts his head.

“What?”

“Warm.” Dorian opens his eyes, but won’t look at Bull. “Your hand is warm.” He sighs and shakes his head. “Never mind, it’s nothing, just… just let’s go. I don’t believe I wish to talk about this any further.”

“All right. Sorry.”

“For what?”

“For bringing the thing up. Should have kept it to myself.”

“You’ve been doing a lot of apologizing lately.”

Bull shrugs. “Maybe I’ve been acting like an ass lately.” He pokes Dorian’s shoulder. “Then again, so have you.”

The mage grunts, but doesn’t say anything.

Bull leads the way. They walk quietly under the bright green trees, climb a low, smoothly curving hill and cross a narrow stream. The world is so deceptively peaceful, and Bull is so deep in thought, that once they reach the edge of a large, almost perfectly round opening, he fails to notice that the birds have stopped singing a while ago, and that there is a reek. He is just not paying as much attention as he should - which explains why it is Dorian who sees it first.

Inexcusable, Bull thinks afterwards. 

”Shit! _Shitshitshit!”_

Dorian's voice is an urgent, hissing whisper. Bull lifts his eye and freezes. Not thirty steps from them sits a giant, rooted firmly on the ground. It is focused on its foot, inspecting an injury maybe, blissfully unaware of the intruders.

Bull and Dorian look at each other and an understanding flares between them immediately: since it is just the two of them, it is definitely best to try and avoid a confrontation of this magnitude. But the moment they silently agree on this, the beast begins twisting its huge, hairy body in an attempt to get back on its feet. 

The chances are, it will head towards them, as it is the way most unobstructed by trees.

Bull reacts the moment the realization hits him, and his instincts kick in: protect, protect, protect.

He grabs Dorian, pretty much throws the mage under the bushes near the tree they are standing by, and dives down himself, spreading his massive body on his shocked companion.

_Protect._ That is all.

The hiding place is sufficient: the giants can't see too well, and the way the wind is blowing, it shouldn't be able to smell them either. Nevertheless, once it starts moving and takes the first crushing, ground shattering step, it seems to hesitate. Bull bites his lip and tenses his muscles, ready to leap. He can feel the faint, familiar tingle as Dorian under him prepares to cast a barrier.

The giant snorts, annoyed, and some sticky drool rains down on the leaves above them. Then it takes another step: a flash of sickly pale, scarred flesh goes by, and it is gone.

Bull exhales and closes his eye.

They wait in case it comes back - giants seem pretty stuck with their territorial patterns after all - but minutes pass and the quaking and the sound of the breaking trees recede further and further away.

Silence. Apart from the soft rustle of the trees, there is nothing else.

“Shit,” Bull mutters. “You all right?”

There is no answer. Bull looks down - and at that very moment he becomes distinctly aware of the warm body under him, squeezed between his arms. The silky hair tickling his chest. The firm back against his belly. The plump, delicious curve of Dorian's ass pressing right into his groin.

Suddenly he is feeling very, very dizzy.

_Get up_ , he commands himself.

He is breathing in Dorian's sweet, spicy scent. It makes him - it kinda makes him -

_Get the fuck up now._

To his horror Bull realizes that he is getting hard - and what’s worse, he has the overpowering urge to grind against the mage. A reflex, surely, nothing more: he is running high on adrenalin, so it is understandable. But then the urge is so strong, insanely strong, and Dorian, curse him, is not moving, or talking, or doing anything, _why is he not doing anything_ , and Bull just can't - he can't -

He squeezes his eye shut and rocks his hips tentatively, wondering if the protesting whine or an attempt to squirm away will come. It doesn't. Instead Dorian gasps and Bull feels the smaller body under him getting hot, as the unmistakable scent of arousal fills his nostrils.

Bull growls softly, pleased. Still - he must _say_ something, ask, he always asks, he is deadly afraid that that might break the spell, but he must do it. All he can hope is that if the answer, against all odds, is no, it will come in the form of words, rather than as a fireball in the face.

”Dorian?” his voice is a soft, dark rumble against the mage's ear. Dorian won’t opens his eyes, but he lifts his hips, and pushes against Bull. His voice is a breathless hiss:

“Yes, the answer is yes, you big lummox, get on with it already!”

Bull frowns. He’d prefer consent that is, well, less _hostile_ ; but he knows this is all he is going to get. He grabs a hold on Dorian's shoulders, presses his forehead against the warm, sun burnt grass, and begins to grind against the mage: steady, deep, purposeful.

Dorian gasps and lets out a little moan. Bull growls and tightens his grip. He keeps moving for a while, wanting, burning, desperate for a release - and then it just isn't enough, not this way. He lifts his hips and snakes his hand under the mage; he fumbles with the laces, loosens them, and unceremoniously pulls the pants down to Dorian's thighs. Dorian whimpers weakly, but that is all. Bull opens his belt and pulls his cock out with trembling fingers -

\- and then they are skin on skin. Bull can't stop an ecstatic groan escaping him. He rubs and kneads the smooth, warm flesh of the delectable bottom, almost crazy with desire now. He sets his heavy cock in between Dorian's cheeks; he knows he can't get in, not without oil, but this is good, so good.

“Pretty mage,” Bull whispers, his lips caressing the shell of Dorian’s ear, and oh, does he wish he dared to kiss the man, “pretty, pretty mage -”

The precome makes things slick enough, and he keeps on grinding, his eye closed, breathing in Dorian's scent, listening to little moans and mewls the mage is making. He is so turned on he won't be able to keep this up for long, so he slips his hand under Dorian and grabs his length, a bit too roughly. It takes only a couple of strokes: the mage arches under him, cries out, and spills on his fingers. Bull grunts, as he feels the familiar tightening in his stomach, and follows right after. His relief is sharp, brilliant, and too fast - _fantastic_ , but too fast.

Bull takes a moment to recover. He is savoring the feel of Dorian's skin against his own, somehow missing it already, as the sense of guilt is beginning to creep in. He gets slowly up on his knees, wincing as his bad leg protests the movement, then wipes Dorian's back clean with a tuft of grass, and turns the mage over.

Dorian refuses to look at Bull. He is just lying there, on the ground, rosy flush on his cheeks, his expression somehow defiant and very much confused. Bull pulls Dorian's pants up, then his own. As he is buckling his belt, Dorian squirms back on his feet.

”Dorian,” Bull says. He tries to make his voice kind, he really does. The mage raises his hand sharply, the gesture absolute.

Bull shuts up. He gets on his feet as well. His eye won't leave Dorian, but he doesn't attempt to talk again.

The mage walks away. 

The Qunari follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo I changed the sex scene a bit, so it is more obviously consensual... because that's how I meant it to be. Didn't want to leave it unclear. :)


	7. Day Nine (continues), The Emerald Graves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut!  
> Also, fluff! :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has consensual sex. That said, at one point someone WILL be held down... It is done gently (and they like it), but if you are sensitive to that kind of thing, beware. 
> 
> Thank You readers for the delightful comments, and Thank You [Fen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan) for beta'ing for me again! You are a marvel! <3

Varric leans against a moss-covered tree trunk and lets out a satisfied sigh. “Well, well, as a friend of mine used to say: it’s a real nice night for an evening.”

Dorian snorts and turns to look at the dwarf.

“Is that Free Marches humor, Master Tethras? What does it even mean?”

Varric gives him a slow, mellow smile and shrugs. “It just means it’s a pleasant evening.” He reaches for his cup. “And I drink to that.”

“Hear, hear!” Trevelyan says.

They have all gathered by the campfire, under the star-bright sky. One of the requisition officers kindly donated Trevelyan two casks of beer, and immediately after the sunset she broke them open and commanded everyone to join the effort of emptying them. Predictably no one said no. Even those who would never touch beer - Vivienne, Cole and Solas - are present for the company’s sake, and everyone seems to be in a wonderful mood.

Dorian has made sure he doesn’t look like an exception. He’s been laughing and flirting away, casual and charming as ever. He’s been making feisty comments, offering helpful points no one’s been asking for, teasing the poor Inquisitor as only he knows how. He’s been _pretending_ \- and the thing is, despite his fiery character and strongly-felt emotions, despite his neverending dramatics and exploding impatience, Dorian is, indeed, an excellent pretender. He’s been trained for the court and he is capable - albeit usually unwilling - of covering his very nature, if so required.

So there he sits, right by the Inquisitor, taking comfort in the knowledge that there is nothing about his demeanor that would hint something out of the ordinary has happened - unless one knows better and has a stupid all-seeing Ben-Hassrath eye. 

Or unless one is a Spirit.

“You are hurting,” Cole says in a bright, breathless voice, staring right at Dorian. “Burning, hoping, the dry grass tickled your cheek. Why was it wrong after?”

“ _No_ , Cole,” Dorian cuts him off sharply. “No.” The Spirit blinks, unsure, and mercifully falls quiet - but by now everyone is staring, of course. Dorian clears his throat. “I... have no idea what you were talking about there, but it definitely sounded like something that is _none of your business_ and better left alone.”

“He misses your skin,” Cole whispers - then he gets up and leaves to wander in the night, as he tends to do. Dorian lets out a quiet sigh of relief.

The uncomfortable silence lasts only for a couple of seconds; then Varric, always the one to defuse a situation, begins reminiscing about his days in Kirkwall again, and soon everyone is laughing. 

Dorian laughs along, hardly listening to the dwarf’s tale (something about… marigolds?). He is stubbornly refusing to look at Bull, but he can feel the piercing stare of that clever eye; it hasn’t left him all night, and it is making him extremely annoyed, deeply embarrassed, and impossibly turned on.

...damned Qunari.

The moment Bull collapsed on him in the woods, Dorian was gone. Utterly. Shamefully. Just like that. It doesn't make any sense: he has never, ever, wanted Bull, he is certain, no matter what some cursed Desire Demon tried to tell him - but now the man’s touch is the only thing he can think about. Those big warm hands on his shoulders, that hot breath on his skin, the crushing weight of that massive body pressing him down… 

Oh, how he yearns to feel it again. Which is frankly _ridiculous_ , because the whole thing was just a whim, a heat of the moment thing never to happen again, he knows. Bull doesn't even like him. 

Dorian is relatively sure he doesn't like Bull either.

He is handling this badly. For whatever reason he is acting like some confused, over-dramatic teen, and it surprises him; if anything, he has always valued his ability to fuck them, leave them, and then politely engage himself in meaningless chit-chat with them ten minutes later when they re-enter the ballroom or theater loge - separately, of course.

He knows how to be indifferent.

Not so with Bull.

Perhaps they are entering some vague friendship territory, then? Whatever it is, he is being silly and immature, and he knows it, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He has to think this through. Things will be alright, surely -

Dorian bites the insides of his cheeks, and forces another smile on his face. It is going to be a long night.

 

***

 

They share the tent, as they always do.

Bull retires first, Dorian some time later. They don't say anything to each other. Bull can smell fresh water on Dorian’s skin; he knows the mage bathed in the river earlier - but there is no hint of his usual body oil, just his own natural scent, which, granted, is very sweet and pleasant, for a human. Yet, Bull finds himself missing the oil, uncertain how he should interpret the lack of it.

Dorian disrobes and lies down. The light goes off.

Bull stares at the tent’s ceiling. He is inhaling Dorian’s scent, listening to the mage’s breathing, thinking about what happened between them.

He touched Dorian. He loved it. And Dorian, he clearly enjoyed it too. But the way it happened... it doesn’t sit well with him. Neither does this: the shame, the avoidance.

No. No: this can not continue, he does not do things this way. This is wrong, this is plain stupid, and they have to get over this to be able to work together. He turns to look at the mage.

”Listen...”

”Not now.”

The reply is as sudden as it is sharp. Bull frowns.

”Dorian, please, this is silly. We are both adults here. There’s nothing to be -”

”I said, _not now_.” 

He can hear the edge in Dorian's voice. Bull lets out a heavy sigh. Fine: he won’t push it - tonight. But they will clear this mess tomorrow, even if he has to tie the damn mage down and spell things out to him.

 

***

 

Bull is woken up by something soft and warm slithering on top of him.

He is awake in a split second: he grabs the intruder, throws them on the ground, and before even thinking about it, he has restrained them and has his fingers tightly around their throat.

”O-oh -” Dorian is gasping. Bull blinks, confused.

” _Dorian?_ Are you insane, I could have killed you! What are you -”

”Fuck me.”

It is a whisper, so faint, so breathless, even Bull's sharp ears have trouble hearing it. He freezes for a moment. _What?_

”Fuck me, Bull...” And then Dorian begins to move under him; smooth, warm, enticing. Bull tries to pull away, but the mage wraps his strong, shapely legs around his waist and follows the movement. Bull groans and shakes his head.

”Dorian - umph -”

Dorian's soft mouth presses on his. The lips are hungry and demanding, desperate, and for a moment Bull loses his ability to think straight. Perhaps there are reasons why he shouldn’t do this; perhaps he should still be unsure and offended - but Dorian _wants_ him, and the notion utterly overwhelms him. He hesitates but for a fleeing moment; then he lets the thoughts go and kisses Dorian back. The mage moans, almost sobbing with relief. 

Bull wraps Dorian gently in his arms, and sinks his fingers in that silky hair. He is trying to slow things down; he wants to touch, to examine, to worship - but Dorian won’t have any of it: he yanks Bull’s pants open, and grabs his cock. Bull gasps, surprised. He feels himself getting hard in seconds.

”Oh,” Dorian purrs softly in his mouth, ”would you look at that.”

There's is oil in Dorian's fingers and palms. He begins to smear it all over Bull’s shaft, sighing and quivering in the most delicious manner as he goes. Bull closes his eye and concentrates on the incredible sensation; his head is dizzy, his heart is pounding - and then, then Bull can feel Dorian positioning himself: the grip of the mage’s legs tightens, as he aims Bull’s cock and begins to press steady against it.

_”No, wait!"_

To his shock, Bull realizes that Dorian has prepared himself already. He is open, he is ready, and he is begging for it. Bull grinds his teeth together, fighting it, feeling horrifically, uncharacteristically indecisive, and his blood is running scorching hot and ice cold at the same time.

”Oh Maker,” Dorian pants, ”oh Maker, oh Maker -”

Bull stares at Dorian's beautiful, flushed face. The mage looks so vulnerable like this, so -

He can't do this. Not this way, not again.

Bull pulls away, abruptly.

Dorian lets out a muffled sound of disappointment and rage. Bull cups his face; Dorian immediately pushes the hand away, angrily, and attempts to crawl towards his own bedroll. Bull pulls him back, holds him.

”Dorian.”

The mage lets out another frustrated sound. Bull looks at him.

”What is this, Dorian?” He caresses the mage's hairline with his blunt fingers. Dorian turns his head to avoid the piercing gaze.

”That was supposed to be sex! From what I've heard you should be quite familiar with the concept, but perhaps I was mistaken after all.”

Dorian makes an attempt to twist himself free, but it is half-hearted, and he ends up pressing himself even closer to Bull's chest. He wants to be held - that much is clear.

”Okay,” Bull says and tightens his squeeze (he can feel the mage shivering at that). ”Look. Here's the thing, Dorian: I don't do things this way. I don't do dirty little secrets. I don’t do shame.”

”Well, that's all I do, so...”

Bull frowns. “There is no need to act like this. I know Tevinter filled your head with all kinds of stupid shit, but things are different here. You don’t have to hide what you are.” He shakes his head. “Dorian, you are so ridiculously proud of yourself, and yet you -”

Dorian explodes.

“I don’t need you analyzing me! You can stick your pity and your clever observations in your ass along with your cultural knowledge!” He is hissing, almost spitting now. “And I can take rejection, _that’s fine_ , I am a big boy, this is not the first time. Now would you kindly let me go!”

Bull purses his lips thoughtfully and tightens his hold. He tilts his head.

”You know, Dorian, there are moments I don't much care for you.”

The mage rolls his eyes. ”The feeling is mutual.”

”See, you are such a...” Bull pauses, considers. ”You are just fucking annoying. You are vain, moody, and arrogant, and your whining drives me crazy. You never listen. You lie.” He pauses again. ”But you deserve better than this. Better than -” he winces slightly. “Better than a hasty tumble in the woods.”

Dorian blinks, surprised. Then he looks defiant. ”Deserve? Pray tell, what do I deserve, in your opinion?”

Bull leans down, cradles Dorian's skull gently, and covers his mouth with his. He kisses the mage softly, slowly, chastely. Dorian allows it; he doesn't fight, he doesn't move - he doesn't answer the kiss either, he just lies there, as if afraid, but Bull can feel his lips trembling. Bull retreats and looks at his face again. Dorian's eyes glimmer like huge black mirrors in the dim light.

”You,” Bull says, ”deserve someone to take their time with you.” He lets his rough fingertip glide over Dorian's lower lip. ”You deserve someone to give you their undivided attention, to appreciate you and take care of you -” 

”Are you sweet-talking to me?” the mage scoffs. ”There really is no need. I fancy your cock, not your affection.”

There's something there about the way he says it, like something breaking.

”Oh, hush.” Bull moves, so that he is looming, big and dominant, over the other man. He slides his heavy hand on that smooth chest, then further down on the flat belly. He can feel Dorian quiver under his palm. ”We don't have to like each other to fuck, that’s true. But it does make things more pleasant.” He lowers his voice. ”We could make this really nice.”

“You just said you don’t care for me!”

“I said there are _moments_ I don’t care for you, because you can be an asshole.” Bull smiles fondly. “But you are also smart, funny and incredibly sweet.” His eye darkens. “Dorian, you are gorgeous.”

“And you - you are just insufferable!” Dorian swallows. Bull leans down, breathing on his face. 

”Let me do this right. I promise you'll enjoy it.”

Without waiting for an answer, he kisses the man again. For a moment Dorian seems about to fight Bull once more - but then he goes boneless and answers the kiss.

Bull hums. Dorian's lips are so sweet, his tongue feels like liquid silk in his mouth, swirling and twisting, and when it wraps around Bull's with a practiced grace… Bull groans and devours him hungrily. His big hands glide on that marvelous body, squeezing and smoothing the soft skin and firm muscles - he is dying to get in again, but he really wants to do this right, without rush.

“Grab my horns,” he mumbles. Dorian lets out a little excited noise and obeys immediately, as if he’s been hoping for this. His slender fingers glide along the hard surface of the horns, studying them, smoothing them in a way that makes Bull purr.

”I wish we were somewhere more private, just the two of us.” Bull begins to trail light, nipping kisses on the mage's neck and chest, slipping downward. ”I'd make you scream.”

”Oh, by all means -”

”You don't mind people hearing?” The Qunari chuckles and sucks the soft spot by Dorian's hip bone. “Well, I suppose it is too late for that anyway.” 

The mage hisses through his teeth, grabs the horns tighter.

”I - set some wards.”

Bull stops what he is doing and lifts his head. A stunned expression spreads on his face; then he bursts out laughing.

”Ohoho, the mage is as sneaky as he is pretty!”

Dorian reaches for his touch. “Please - please.” He is moaning softly, arching his body against the bigger man's bulk again. Bull looks at him, almost amused. There is something about Dorian like this, when he is pliant and honest, something devastatingly endearing. The sounds he makes, the way he moves, the way he feels… he responds so beautifully to every word and touch.

 _”Bull!”_ he gasps, pleading.

”Yes,” Bull whispers, ”yes, yes, Dorian.”

He takes it slow. No matter how hard Dorian keeps pushing and begging, Bull won’t budge. He examines every inch of Dorian’s body with his mouth and hands; sucking, biting, caressing and squeezing, teasing as well as calming down, giving the man what he so desperately needs and deserves. He sucks Dorian’s cock too - just to get him crying and shaking properly.

“Pull your knees to your chest,” Bull says finally. Dorian obeys immediately. His eyes are huge, his mouth open, his tousled hair and heaving chest gleaming with sweat. He looks desperate, and maybe just a little scared.

Bull gets the oil and checks Dorian with his fingers first. The mage has done a good job opening himself earlier, and Bull can get two fingers in quite easily; he takes his time to work in the third one, as Dorian keeps gasping and sighing delightfully.

“All right.” Bull kisses Dorian’s forehead, positions himself, and begins to glide in. Dorian cries out, and although it is not a cry of pain, Bull hesitates. Dorian reacts by pushing urgently against him. Bull takes a deep breath, and continues - but he forces himself to go slow, slow, resisting the urge to ram inside with all that he’s got; the mage feels so small in his arms, so maddeningly tight and warm around him.

“Oh,” Dorian says, _“oh -”_

“That’s right, Dorian,” Bull whispers. “You feel good.” He closes his eye, as he bottoms. “So fucking good. Such a - good boy.”

Bull starts to move with gentle, unstoppable force, rocking against the mage. They can try other things - restrains, pain, anything, anything Dorian likes - another time, and oh, how he hopes there will be other times. But right now he just wants to give this: his touch, his warmth, the proof of his desire. Because that is what Dorian needs.

Bull bites into the spot where Dorian’s neck and shoulder meet, and begins to pound into him with long, steady thrusts, picking up his pace now.

 _“Andraste’s ass!”_ Dorian wails. Bull chuckles.

“I believe I prefer yours.”

 

***

 

Dorian snuggles against Bull’s side and sighs contentedly. He is feeling wonderful. He is warm, he is satisfied, and he is clean - the big dummy has done an excellent job cleaning him afterwards.

He fondles absent-mindedly a dark bite mark on his shoulder; one of many. It hurts quite a bit, in a warm, dull way. He loves it.

“I’d like to take you to my bed when we are back in Skyhold,” Bull states. He pauses. “If that’s okay with you.”

Dorian considers. He is trying to act nonchalant, but his heart is fluttering.

He shouldn’t. He knows better than this: he knows he will get attached, and then he will screw things up and get hurt, because that is what always happens. That is _especially_ what happens when one gets involved with a stupid, promiscuous Qunari who has no concept of romantic affection, of this he is sure.

But the Iron Bull is so warm. So… comforting. The sex was so otherworldly magnificent. 

“I might be persuaded to consider such endeavor,” Dorian hears himself say. Bull clears his throat.

“Good. ‘Cause I have some things I’d like to show you.”

“I doubt there are many things I haven’t tried, my Qunari friend.”

Bull laughs at that; he lifts Dorian’s chin and studies the mage for the longest time.

“You know, you really are something,” he says finally. Dorian dares a small, haughty smile.

“Oh, I am, am I not?” His gaze slips to the Qunari’s wide, scarred mouth. “I am simply marvelous, and, as it happens, feeling rather magnanimous at the moment, so…” he presses closer; seductive, soft, demanding. “Why don’t you kiss me again?”

“With pleasure,” Bull mutters.


	8. Day Thirteen, Skyhold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the final chapter, folks! It's about to get fluffy.... :)
> 
> [Fen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan), dearest, Thank You for all your help! Couldn't have done this without you. <3

”I hope you are pleased with yourself.”

Trevelyan lifts her head. Bull is standing by the stairs, his massive arms crossed. He doesn't look happy. The Inquisitor pushes her paperwork aside and frowns.

”About what now?”

Bull steps in front of the desk and looms. Trevelyan freezes. ”Bull?”

”I fucked the Vint,” the Qunari states with a calm voice. Trevelyan's jaw drops. Her eyes widen. 

”What?”

”I said I fucked him. Took him to bed. Stuck my dick in him. Filled him with my seed. Should I draw you _a picture?_ ”

”Ohhh – ” 

Bull leans closer. ”I fucked him, and then I fucked him again, and then once more for the heck of it, and now I can't think about anything else, so thanks a lot, and I hope you are pleased with yourself.”

The Inquisitor turns bright red: Bull spins around and walks back towards the staircase.

 _”Wait!”_ Trevelyan tries to stand up, almost falling over. ”Is that - is that all? Are you two -”

Bull points a stern finger at her. ”Stay out of this.” His voice is a deep, slow growl, his posture stiff - but there's something about his face - a glimmer in his eye -

Trevelyan gasps.

”You like him!”

Bull looks taken aback; then he reaches for nonchalance, makes it a joke: ”Yeah, I like his _ass_.” He grins, shows teeth. “It's exquisite.”

”No, Bull: you _like_ him! You -” she screeches, “you are smitten! Oh Maker!” She bursts into bright laughter, and brings her hands on her cheeks, shocked and delighted. _”I am so happy!”_

“Boss -”

_“You are smitten, Bull!”_

“Dammit, boss, knock it off.”

Trevelyan will most definitely not knock it off - she couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off her face even if she wanted to. The idea that Bull has finally come to his senses and acknowledged the marvelousness of the dashing Tevinter altus delights her no end; as does the notion that Bull felt he should let her know. 

Still -

“So, uh, how is Dorian feeling about all this?” she asks, suddenly a bit worried. One never knows with Dorian. Bull looks like he is not going to answer, but then he shrugs.

“Hasn’t been complaining so far.”

The Inquisitor lifts her eyebrow. “Now, we both know _that_ is a lie.”

Bull considers. “Well - yeah.” He almost looks like he is trying to cover a smile. “I guess Dorian seems to be quite into it.”

“Yes!” Trevelyan pumps her fist in triumph. “This is perfect!” She grabs Bull’s shoulders. “Details. I need details.”

The Qunari starts - he always does when the Anchor hand comes too close, even though it’s covered with a glove. Trevelyan bites her lip and pulls back.

“Apologies.”

“No problem, boss.”

“So - those details?”

“Sorry to disappoint you.” Bull looks way too pleased. “It’s classified.”

Trevelyan snorts.

“I am the Inquisitor: nothing is classified.”

“Uh-huh. Tell that to your spymaster.” 

“Ouch.”

Bull pats her hand. “Goodbye, boss.”

“But -”

_“Goodbye.”_

Bull disappears down the stairs, muttering something in Qunlat under his breath. Trevelyan falls back on her chair - oh well: she can squeeze it all out of Dorian later on; a bottle of good brandy and a promise of a set of new robes will make the mage sing like a bird. 

She comes to think about something. She jumps up and runs after Bull.

”Bull, wait!”

The Qunari, who is almost to the bottom of the stairs, stops, and looks up at her. Trevelyan raises her hand, pleading.

”Just - don't hurt him. Please.”

Bull stares at her for a moment. His face twitches.

”Never,” he says. She nods, relieved, and a bit stunned by the severity of the statement. Then she smirks.

”Oh, and also, I want to be the one to marry you two when the time comes. I am pretty sure the Inquisitor can do that, and that way we can -”

”Fuck off, boss,” Bull says, but there is a smile pulling the side of his mouth up.

 

***

 

Bull leans against the chapel wall and watches Dorian on the other side of the garden.

He hasn’t seen the mage since they got back yesterday, and as pathetic as it is, he feels like he is… longing.

Dorian is kneeling on the ground, tending to some herbs Trevelyan has planted there. He is wearing a long, deep red silk coat that is shimmering in the sunlight; his graceful brown hands are moving softly, carefully as he is checking on the plants.

An act, Bull knows. Dorian is well aware of being watched.

Bull enjoys the view for another moment; then he gives up and crosses the yard. He notices Dorian shoot him a quick glance from the corner of his eye.

“I find,” Bull says, as he stops by the mage, “that I am having a day off with nothing much to do.” Dorian still doesn’t look at him, but his hands have stopped and are now sort of hovering over the reddish-green leaves. Bull clears his throat. “And I was wondering.”

Dorian turns to him. Bull can see the other man’s breath catch and his eyes darken; he is clearly affected by their size difference now that Bull is towering so far above him.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if you’d like to share a dinner with me.” He can’t help smiling at Dorian’s stunned expression. “In case you are hungry. At some point.”

 _“Oh.”_ The mage bows his head. Then he frowns, confused. “But why?” He looks at Bull again. “I told you I will come to your bed if you - if you still want me. There’s no need for this song and dance.”

Bull scratches his pointy ear.

“Shit, I don’t know.” He fights the very real urge to lean down, wrap Dorian in his arms, and hold him tight. _If you still want me_. Was that a joke? “Just feels like the right thing to do. To get to really know you properly.”

“To… get to know me?”

“Yeah.” Bull grins and offers his hand. “Someone smart once told me we have so much in common that we would make great friends.”

Dorian still looks unsure, but he accepts the hand and pulls himself up. Bull takes a quick look around. There aren’t many people in the garden yet; a couple of chantry sisters and a random gardener. Bull takes Dorian’s arm and leads him under the nearby archway, behind a pillar.

“Now, don’t get me wrong...” he bends down to mumble against Dorian’s ear as his large hand glides on the mage’s shapely ass and squeezes. “I want this too.”

Dorian gasps, and a shiver runs through his body. 

“Friends with benefits, then? Us?”

Bull cups the man’s face and looks him in the eye. “Something like that. Sure.” He lets his thumb sweep the side of Dorian’s plump mouth. He has _plans_ for that mouth and he can feel his cock stirring, how could it not - but then Dorian leans his pretty face into Bull’s touch, so damn sweetly, and the lusty sensation is dampened by a tender, warm ache suddenly tightening his chest.

 _Ohhh no_ , Bull thinks, and swears in his mind, because he recognizes the feeling, or at least some variation of it, and like any good Qunari, he has never mixed that particular feeling with the sex thing. But he hesitates just for a moment - and then he does what he’s been wanting to do all along; he wraps both of his arms around the mage and embraces him, not caring if anyone in the garden sees them. 

Bull breathes in Dorian’s warm, familiar scent. He’s been missing it so bad. He wants to say something, something tender, perhaps, but suddenly his speech leaves him - 

\- so he just kisses Dorian instead.

The mage, clearly not fond of public displays of affection, interrupts the kiss and unwraps himself readily, but he doesn’t run away, and Bull counts that as victory. He smiles at Dorian, and Dorian smiles right back.

“I believe you mentioned dinner,” the mage says. Bull nods.

“I believe I did.”

“Well then.” Dorian smooths the silk of his expensive coat. “In that case, may I suggest that you, being so dearly loved by the kitchen staff, go and bribe them to give up their finest treats - which, I suspect, won’t be very fine, but must do under the circumstances.” He lowers his voice. “Meanwhile, I shall go and raid the Inquisitor’s personal liquor storage. I am sure we both agree that she _very much deserves it_. Finally, we shall meet in your room, enjoy our meal with some hopefully decent Sun Blonde, and afterwards, if both parties agree, indulge in some ...” He pauses. Bull looks at him expectantly.

“Yeah?”

The mage looks down, as if bashful. “Oh - I believe I quite desperately need you to fuck me.”

Bull lets out a long, velvety soft growl that makes Dorian’s eyes widen.

“Deal,” he grunts, spins around, and heads for the kitchen, trying very much not to run. He can feel Dorian’s gaze on his back - the mage is probably ogling his muscles again. The thought warms his silly heart, and as he reaches the doorway, he turns to look at Dorian one more time.

“Hey, Dorian.”

“Yes, Bull?”

“You could bring the book with you.”

The mage’s brows knit. “The book?”

Bull grins. “You know - with the Arvaarad. I never got to read the thing. Could be inspirational.”

Almost faster than an eye can see, Dorian picks up a lump of dirt and throws it at the Qunari: it lands right in the middle of Bull’s chest.

“If I am not an inspiration enough,” the mage hisses, “then I think you can forget about the whole thing.”

Bull laughs. Dorian, whose cheeks are burning, tries very much not to laugh. He fails.

“Idiot.”

“So you’re bringing it or what?” 

“Fine.”

Bull looks at him fondly. Dorian is so beautiful in the golden afternoon light, his eyes are so bright now, his smile so devastating. Bull takes a deep, painful breath. He can’t believe there used to be a time, just days ago, when he didn’t desire this, when he didn’t _know_. 

How could he not want Dorian, how could he not just _ache_ for the man - how could he ever not be interested?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand it's a wrap! :)
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading! Your comments give me life and I treasure each and everyone of you! <3


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